Tripoli's Target

Chapter Twenty-one

Matthew’s office was on the second floor, in the eastern corner of the embassy. The walls were adorned with portraits of American presidents. Washington, Lincoln, Roosevelt, Gerber. Justin slowed down his pace as they reached the last portrait. Stacy Gerber, who was to arrive in Tripoli in two days, was looking at him through her still green eyes. A true politician gaze, inspiring and comforting, secure and confidant. She may be off the terrorists’ hit list, but this is far from over. A moment later, he noticed Carrie and the guard had stopped and were staring at him.

“I’m coming,” he said, before they had a chance to say anything.

“What is it?” Carrie asked.

“Nothing. I was just looking at the President’s picture.”

The Secret Service Assistant Director’s office door was open, but the guard still tapped it lightly out of courtesy. Matthew, standing by a small window, glanced at them. He gestured for Justin and Carrie to take a seat next to a stainless steel table with a round glass top. A few piles of manila folders were scattered over the table. Justin noticed a few aerial photographs and mug shots, as well as a few reports. Some were stamped TOP SECRET.

“I guess I owe you an apology,” Matthew began in a flat voice, his back toward them, his gaze still floating outside the window. He allowed a few seconds to pass and then, after the agents’ respectful silence, he added, “I hope you still want to get to the bottom of your investigation.”

“We do, sir,” Justin replied.

“Absolutely,” Carrie added.

“OK, then.” Matthew turned around, resting his back against the window and pointed at the table. “I want this bastard and I don’t care if his uncle is the King or the Crown Prince. If Al-Farhan is behind Nour’s shooting, I want him to pay.”

Justin threw a quick glance at one of the pictures. Is that the Prince? he wondered. Instead, he asked, “How’s Nour doing?”

“The British doctors are working on removing the bullet. If it has pierced his lungs, his chances of coming out of the coma drop significantly. At this point, they’re still assessing the internal damage. Let’s just hope his spinal cord is intact. Those damn bullets are so unpredictable. You never know what has been pierced and slashed along its path, and…”

Matthew’s voice trailed off, and Justin did not ask for further details. He knew that even surface gunshot wounds could deteriorate into life-threatening situations. Nour had taken a bullet inches away from his vital organs. His prognosis did not look good.

“Anyway.” Matthew attempted to clear the glooming cloud shadowing his mood, “I was saying, if this jerk had anything to do with sending Nour’s shooter, he has no idea what’s coming to him.” He walked to the table and sat across from them. “My men searched the apartment on the fourth floor, but the shooter vanished. The place is now teeming with secret and not-so-secret police.”

“I saw two people on the balcony minutes before the attack,” Justin said, “but only one person firing the rifle.”

“It doesn’t really matter, since the mukhabarat will find nothing. They’ll arrest some poor schmuck, who’ll confess to the shooting under torture. We have no jurisdiction outside our embassy. My hands are tied.”

Matthew pointed both his index fingers at the agents. “But yours are not. You’re willing and you’re able.”

“Wait a minute,” Justin said. “What about the deportation order? Colonel Farid wants us out of Libya by tomorrow morning.”

“That’s taken care off. The colonel has been MIA since noon.”

“What? Where did he go?”

“His blue Fiat was found abandoned just south of the city. Farid’s not answering his cellphones and no one has any idea of his whereabouts.”

“You’re thinking what I’m thinking?” Carrie asked Matthew.

Matthew nodded. “Yes, Prince Al-Farhan seems to be the only known link between these incidents. First, you’re attacked after discovering something’s amiss in the plot against my President, which we know was a decoy. Then, after the attack failed, Colonel Farid disappears without a trace, and one of my men is shot assassination-style. There’s only one man we know who can pull this off in a matter of hours. Prince Al-Farhan.”

“Oh, now you’re connecting the dots,” Carrie said.

Her voice came out a bit accusatory, although Justin knew she did not mean to be brazen. Matthew was already on their side.

“No, I made the connection when I first heard you, but things were different at the time. Two hours ago, I didn’t have my right-hand man lying half dead on a surgeon’s table, and I was missing the last two pieces of evidence that support this theory: the disappearance of Colonel Farid and the two shootings. If Al-Farhan brought his dirty war to us, making Americans his target, we’ll pay him back. The Prince is now our target.”

“Wasn’t Al-Farhan targeting America all along? After all, the initial plot was to assassinate the American President during her visit here,” Carrie said.

“He was, but see, that plot was a hoax, a decoy. And good thing we found out. The President gets about three hundred threats a day, most of which completely outlandish. I admit, this plot seemed to have teeth, and we did investigate and take all necessary measures. When a US President visits a foreign country, especially one with which we haven’t had the greatest relationship in more than forty years, a lot of henchmen start coming out of the woodwork. And these henchmen drew blood. The blood of my man.” Matthew rapped his knuckle over the manila folders on the table. “Now, more evidence has piled up on my desk during the last two days. The Secret Service has been trailing Prince Al-Farhan’s movements over the last month, as soon as we learned about my President’s visit for the G-20 Summit. But the Saudis’ are so rich we struggle to keep up our surveillance. When they vacation for weeks in private islands, we can’t always send our men incognito. They have their own banking system, cloaked in secrecy. They fly in their private jets and pay off everyone to seal their lips.

“So, our cases on their alleged support for terrorism are always full of holes. Often we need to make great leaps of faith in drawing our conclusions. On top of everything else, even when the evidence points straight at the villain, the Saudis are always protected by this, this aura of exclusivity, because of their close relationships with our political and business masters.”

“What’s the evidence you have on the Prince?” Justin asked.

Matthew opened one of the folders, shuffled through its papers, and handed Justin a stack of about a dozen documents. “These are bank transactions. Companies controlled by associates of the Prince have been wiring thousands of dollars to Islamic charities and foundations throughout North Africa. Some of the recipients allegedly have loose ties to the Islamic Fighting Alliance,” Matthew said, using a pencil to point at the documents.

“Oh, so you are in the know about these wire transfers?” Carrie asked.

“Yes, we are, but I’m not going to repeat myself about the protection surrounding the Saudis. I said allegedly and loose ties. We can fill in the blanks and that’s what we’re doing, albeit quite late. Trust me, I wish I would have done this earlier, before my man was shot down.”

Matthew’s fingers clenched around the pencil and it broke in half. Slivers flew across the table.

“Who are these other people?” Justin gestured with his head toward the photographs.

Matthew pushed aside the pencil halves. A sliver had slipped into the skin of his left palm. He headed to his desk for a Kleenex to wipe away a trickle of blood.

“The gentleman in the tuxedo is Prince’s personal aide, Mr. Zakir Al-Dakhil. Zakir is his right hand, a real son of a bitch. These photos were taken at a wedding reception late last year, so he’s not expected to have changed much.”

Justin stared at the photo. The man staring back was clean shaven, with a dimpled chin and shiny, bleached blonde hair cut to ear length. His nose had a fleshy drooping tip, and the man carried large fat sacks underneath his gray-blue eyes. A couple of thin wrinkles had formed in his broad forehead.

“How old is Zakir?” Justin passed the photo along to Carrie.

“There should be a file on him in there, with all personal details.” Matthew returned to his seat. “Here it is.” He found it after riffling through the papers.

Justin analyzed the document. It listed Zakir’s birthdate as January 10, 1970. His birthplace was Dhahran, Saudi Arabia.

“And this is Prince Husayn bin Al-Farhan.” Matthew dug up another photograph and gave it to Justin. “This was taken last month, in his yacht, off the southern coast of France.”

The man smiling from the photo was dressed in a white robe and a red-and-white checkered ghutrah, the headdress worn traditionally by Saudi royals. Justin stared at the man’s expressive face, ambition and power displayed clearly in his black eyes, which also carried a dark glint of malice. He had a straight forehead without the hint of a wrinkle, at least as far as the ghutrah left uncovered, and healthy ruby red cheeks. The Prince had a thick nose, perfect teeth, a gray thin moustache and a protruding chin.

“He’s carrying his fifty years really well.” Justin flipped through a few documents Matthew had pushed toward him. They contained the Prince’s personal information, which read like a long resume.

“Good health is just one of the privileges of a few billion dollars,” Matthew replied.

“What’s this?” Carrie pointed at one of the aerial photos.

She could tell it was a large complex of buildings, made up of three interconnected wings that formed a large Y-shaped structure. It was most likely a house, since Carrie could make out a large swimming pool and what seemed like a huge garage and a stable at a distance from the main building. Her question was about the location of the complex.

“That’s Prince’s sixty-five thousand square feet mansion in the outskirts of Riyadh.” Matthew paused for a brief second and added quickly, “But that’s not our point of attack.”

“Attack?” Justin and Carrie gasped.

Matthew offered a justifying head tilt and a resigning hand gesture.

“Well, maybe ‘attack’ is a strong word. I meant to say a ‘raid.’ Hmmm, a ‘search.’ Hopefully, we can find some irrefutable evidence about his involvement in Nour’s shooting and the plot against Libya’s Prime Minister. But this search can’t take place at his mansion. It’s extremely well-protected.”

“His main office?” Justin asked.

“Well, his main office is in his yacht, this humongous floating fortress that never docks in the same port more than twenty-four hours. It’s named ‘Arabia’ and it’s a two hundred and seventy-feet long beauty. Like his mansion, it’s heavily guarded at all times. And we can’t deploy a large team. Well, basically, this is the team.” He motioned toward the two agents sitting across the table.

Carrie frowned. “Let me get this straight. You want the two of us to raid the Prince’s fortress and get killed while trying?”

Matthew grinned. “Of course not. I said his usual strongholds are unassailable. We’ll try to breach the Prince’s security where he’s most vulnerable, given our limited resources.”

“Pathetic, not limited, was the first term that came to mind,” Carrie blurted.

Matthew frowned. Carrie just shrugged.

“I guess you have some kind of a plan?” Justin asked.

“No. Not yet anyway.” Matthew rubbed his chin.

“What else do you have on the Prince?” Carrie asked.

“This is just the tip of the iceberg.” Matthew placed his right hand over the folders. “I’ve requested the rest of the files from the Secret Service and the CIA. We should get them soon. We know the Prince always travels in his own private jet, a Boeing 707, which is virtually a flying palace. He has been seen taking choppers for shorter rides, but he’s always surrounded by an entourage of aides and protected by a company of bodyguards.”

“So, his palace in the air is better guarded than his palace on the ground,” Carrie quipped.

Matthew ignored her dry wit remark. “If you gain entry to Prince’s private jet and search it, maybe you’ll find some evidence of his involvement in this plot.”

“And how exactly do we do that?” Justin asked.

“I haven’t thought that far. As I said earlier, I wasn’t going to say anything to you if it were not for Nour getting shot. A few minutes ago, we received this piece of intel.” Matthew held up a single sheet of paper.

Justin held out his hand and Matthew gave him the document.

“A CIA source learned the Prince is visiting a hot area in the Gulf Region. Yemen.”

“Yemen?” Carrie’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Isn’t some sheikh, yes, Sheikh Al-Arhabi going there too?”

“Yes, the leader of the Alliance is going to Yemen too,” Matthew said. “This isn’t a coincidence. I dug a bit deeper and found out they’re both visiting Northern Yemen. Not clear exactly on the location, but I bet the ranch the Prince is meeting the Sheikh. And we know what kind of deals they’re cutting in that terrorist haven.”

“Yemen has been an Al-Qaeda base for many years. Iran and Saudi Arabia flex their muscles in this no man’s land.” Justin pondered over the new piece of information. He was staring at the Xeroxed note as if it could reveal the location of the secret meeting.

“Yes, and I’m advising against following Al-Farhan into that hellhole,” Matthew said with a deep sigh. He brought his hands behind his neck and slowly leaned back in his swiveling chair. “Here’s all I’ve got on Al-Farhan so far. Analyze it and let me know your plans, keeping in mind we don’t have much time. I can provide some logistics, but that’s pretty much it. I wish I could do more, but since a Saudi prince is involved, I don’t have much leverage.” He sighed again, this time bitterness and rage spreading across his face like dark tornado clouds.

Justin gathered the paperwork, stacking it in two thick piles. Carrie picked up the one closer to her.

“We’ll use the Washington conference room,” Justin said, referring to the room where he first briefed Matthew less than twenty-four hours ago.

“I’ll send someone to bring you some lunch. But first, I’ll check on Nour.”